Inadvisably Ethical Philosophy
by jedimattk
Summary: A new professor arrives at Unseen University with a troubled past, while the Assassins' Guild's best contractor prepares to carry out the most difficult exhumation of his career.


As a forewarning to my readership: I love my characters, but right now they don't love me. It might be a while before I write anything more for this story, but if you like it, by all means let me know.

Also, I don't own the Discworld. That's preposterous. You can't own a sense of humor.

* * *

Arien Cornel was a careful man. Before going out on a job, he carefully inspected every one of his daggers and arrows, each Al-Khali poison dart and Agatean throwing star. His stylish black suit, matching black cloak, and knee-high black boots were variously washed, brushed, polished and pressed; he spent a careful half-hour donning them in front of his full-length mirror. He carefully took apart his pistol crossbow, a specially-made miniature model that could be concealed in the sleeve of your shirt or the pocket of your trousers; each of its mechanisms were carefully oiled, reassembled, and hidden upon his person.

Assassins, as a general rule, are not particularly adaptable – mainly because, as a general rule, they follow general rules. Their Guild has a strict code of conduct to keep them separate from the common thugs and murderers; assassins must have style, they must have discretion, they must be paid enormously large sums of money. Mr. Cornel followed the rules religiously; the kind of religion that meets in dark rooms and very piously performs ritual sacrifice.

A case could be made that the regulations and routines of the Assassins' Guild do more harm than good. Indeed, with its less experienced members, this is often the case; they try to fit their rules into the situation and as such are taken completely by surprise when a crossbow bolt spears them between the eyes. But Mr. Cornel, we will soon find, is exceptional. Lesser assassins try to fit the Guild rules to the situation; Mr. Cornel fit every situation to the rules.

Another odd thing about Mr. Cornel was the way he moved. He had daggers sheathed on either wrist, on either hip, and in the heel of either boot; he had twenty-one tiny arrows hanging from his belt and an equally tiny crossbow up his sleeve; he wore a bandolier of darts and other throwing weapons beneath his shirt, coated with a variety of exotic poisons. All things considered, he should have made more noise with each step than a dwarf mine in full force. But Mr. Cornel moved silently, without so much as the click of his boots upon the floor.

He slid open his room's sole window, allowing – against all reason – Ankh-Morpork's twilight breeze to play across his face. Ignoring the familiar stench of dung, tallow, and unwashed citizenry, Mr. Cornel took in the gap with a practiced eye: no more than eight meters between this side of the Assassins' Guild and the Fools' Guild opposite. He clambered out, let himself hang from the windowsill for a moment, and, with a complex twisting motion, _leapt._

The assassin, very carefully not silhouetted against the moonlight, hit the stark wall. Without wasting a heartbeat, he flipped upward onto the rooftop and back onto his feet, moving swiftly forward. The next jump was onto the Post Office roof – tricky, that one, with the ornamental gargoyles and the column. He settled for a controlled dive rather than an all-out leap, culminating in a somersault to hide him behind the rather convenient scenery.

This method of moving across a city is second nature to any assassin, and even the most senior of them would be forgiven for letting their mind wander a bit while they jump and roll across the rooftops. Mr. Cornel's mind did not wander. When he had to cross Broadway, he calmly loaded into his crossbow a bolt with a length of string tied to one end, the other end being wrapped securely around the Temple of Fate's chimney. The arrow buried itself in the loose mortar of the building opposite, and Mr. Cornel – after an almost ludicrously easy hand-over-hand climb – continued on his moonlit journey.

Swiftly, silently, the assassin moved parallel to the Street of Small Gods, circled around the Plaza of Broken Moons, and finally paused above Sator Square. He had only to cross the wide expanse and he would be _there._


End file.
